"White, Pamela - The Perfect Murder" - читать интересную книгу автора (White Pamela)

Remove the rake and take it over to the washbasin, rinse it off. Lean it back on wall.

Open package of plastic drop cloth. Use duct tape to manacle his hands together, same with ankles. Wrap him in plastic. Drag it under table with safe. Sorry, honey, I won't be bringing the safe home tonight, but at least he won't be able to keep those most important papers out of your hands for much longer.

Now what?

Walking up the stairs, I tried to formulate a clever plan. I didn't know how long it would take before anyone would find him, down there in the cold damp cellar. I didn't know who would even bother looking since his wife had left him. I knew that sooner might be better. Serena was at a charity dinner auction or some such thing this evening. She would have an alibi, so sooner would be better. Couldn't they tell the time of death? Yes, Serena needed that alibi.

Besides an anonymous 911 call, I could only come up with one way to get police involved. I painstakingly climbed the stairs, heavy in my heart, and heavy in my body. I wearily searched through the rooms for paper and pen. X marked the kitchen desk.

Serena had drawn me a map of the relevant areas in the house: the back door entrance, the hallway to the cellar, the safe's location and the stairs to her room. The kitchen's location hadn't seemed material to the success of this mission. It took me a few minutes to find what I needed, but eventually I sat at the kitchen desk, holding a pen in my double gloved hands, shaking so hard I couldn't get the pen to paper for several seconds. Breathing deeply I began to write:

"We have Brock Evans. Follow my instructions and he will not be hurt."

Not very eloquent. What kind of ransom demand seemed appropriate? During my dramatic junior high days, I had read a novel about a kidnapping. The fictional ransom was equal to twice the value of the kidnappee's home. What had Serena said? Her share of the estate's worth, while modest by some standards, would still equal $350,000. That made the house worth $700,000 and the likely ransom to be $1.4 million. Just one problem. Who should receive this note? Not the police directly. Not Serena. Number one priority was to leave Serena out of it. Brock was a financier, probably crooked, and he had a partner. Not having much time to come up with a better plan, I decided this partner fellow was the best bet.

I continued the note: "$1.4 million dollars in unmarked, small bills will be delivered to me by this Friday at midnight. Further instructions to follow." It sounded corny, even to me. Maybe I should write more. "You will be called Friday morning with the details." I could say that; if Mr. Partner man called the police and they searched the house, no one would be surprised that there was no phone call. I found Brock's business cards, addressed an envelope to his partner and stamped the letter. Still shaking, I put the letter in the mailbox on my way down the long driveway, muddy from recent late fall lawn work.

I drove home.

"Kelly, you're home!"

Serena's happy voice was a shock to hear. Too much had happened for her to remain cheerful and innocent.

"Why aren't you at your dinner?" I asked out of concern, albeit a bit harshly. She needed that alibi, dammit.

"I was bored there, I just wanted to have a quiet evening at home with you." Her eyes were bright, the question unasked.

"Um, I had to work late, then I went looking for a new bathroom rug." I looked at the floor while I lied. "The old one, you know, it's starting to disintegrate. So I didn't get around to stopping by your old stomping grounds. I know you wanted the safe and clothes, but.... Please forgive me."

I expected a look of disappointment and some sharp words: Serena wasn't one to accept a setback, but she shrugged. "Don't worry. Brock will be out of town another time and we'll get my stuff then."

For obvious reasons I didn't tell her that her information about Brock traveling this week had been incorrect.

"I'm gonna take a hot bath, Okay? It's been a long day, and I'm really beat." I headed for the kitchen and a makeshift martini. Taking a large drinking glass, I poured an overabundance of gin and added three olives for texture. I couldn't stand to be in the same room with Serena, the woman who had awakened my hopes of someday being loved. The thought of her cool hand touching me gently on the shoulder as she walked by turned my stomach. Her blameless smile was discordant with my current reality. I had to put a door and some running, steamy water between us.

I lay back in the tub, half of my drink doing a dance in my empty stomach. Suddenly, suddenly, suddenly, my breath was gone and I saw the body before me. I had killed a man, I had murdered a man, and I had left the scene because I didn't want to get pushed around by the police after having been pushed around my men my whole life. How's that for pathological?

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," welled forth from my inside, part prayer of confession, part plea for forgiveness, part terror of the price I'd have to pay. Weeping, I let myself sink slowly under the water, a liquid baptism to clean my soul. And all I could think of: "All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand." My liberal arts education was finally paying off.

***

All my life I had managed to manage. That is, I told myself that what happened in the past, was past. Live for today, blah, blah. I was okay wasn't I? A simple attempt to buy a washer showed me how wrong that belief was.

The rage, a seed sown by my grandfather but watered and fertilized by my mother, father, teachers, boss, boyfriends, and all, had apparently been kept under wraps long enough. This day, the appliance salesman tried the old bait and switch on me. I exploded. One minute, I'm a demure woman asking about washers, and the next I am shrieking obscenities and throwing signs and his clipboard through the air. I loudly shared my belief that this place was a den of thieves with the other customers.

The police didn't exactly arrest me, but they did scare me into seeking help. I found a therapist who saw through my calm, quiet exterior and pushed me to admit that yes, all those years ago, my grandfather had used me, and yes, my family knew but probably had been abused by this man in their own time. And that yes, all my subsequent problems with people, especially men, were rooted in my denial of the damage done to me. I continued seeing her privately once a week, and in a group setting once a week. The group therapy fascinated me. It was a women's support group: everyone had self-esteem problems and the goal was to work on how to change the way we reacted to others, so that our lives would be fuller, happier, more whole.

Serena was a member. She bravely opened up about her abusive husband. I was made courageous by her actions and resolved to tell the truth about my past. Two days after my first tough session telling on my grandfather, I ran into Serena in a deli. We sat down together. She told me we could help each other, even outside of group, a big no-no therapy-wise. Still, we knew each other's pain, and I didn't see how it could do us any harm. I admit I was smitten with her clear blue eyes, and sweet smile, her perfect hair. It had been years since my last boyfriend left with my TV and La-Z-Boy. My emotions had been dead so long, I knew resurrection was impossible. But there I was feeling some new stirrings sitting across the table from Serena.